Dissimulator
by GRAY F0X
Summary: The year is 1917. Eren Jaeger separates himself from his allies on Paradis and enlists into the Eldian army under the name Eren Krueger, intent on stopping the conflict from the inside. He is soon forced to confront the perspectives of the men and women he once called enemy, casting his own morals into question. (CH2 WIP) [Post-Timeskip AU Eren/surprise OC] [Art by roredwarrior3]
1. Chapter 1

a/n: Wahey, an update!

I'd been batting around the idea of what Eren's time was like in Marley for a while, and how his introduction to the "real world" would affect his view about the world beyond Paradis. I was also curious to see if I could provide him a genuine friendship/romance with an original character, for a change. So I reverse-engineered the bulk of that concept into an original short story (because if EL James can do it so can I) and then reversed that reverse-engineering, and now, boom, fanfiction.

It's easily one of the more challenging things I've written in terms of structure and balancing characters, as well as an attempt at true narrative competence. Plus, it was a lot of fun to conceptualize.

**EDIT 05/11/20: Made a few alterations to Eren's syntax, as well as elaborated on a couple other details to fit in with chapter two.**

* * *

"In a war there are many moments for compassion and tender action. There are many moments for ruthless action — what is often called ruthless — what may in many circumstances be only clarity, seeing clearly what there is to be done and doing it, directly, quickly, awake, looking at it."

— Captain Benjamin L. Willard, _Apocalypse Now_

* * *

He was not alone in the trench; this he knew from the voices of the other soldiers beyond the mouth of the dugout and the intermittent rounds of artillery fire. The din resonated with some deeper part of him, that same lack of peace that had accompanied him throughout many nights as a boy, a private demon, unable to be soothed, closer than a childhood friend. Now there was the horizon beyond the dugout, and beyond that the inexorable promise of death, becoming just another aspect of ordinary chaos that had grown up alongside him.

His given name was Eren Krueger. He was going to be nineteen next March, if he lived that long. He carried nothing with him but his uniform, his field-kit and ambitions. It had been about a year now since he first enlisted, and the less he thought of home the easier it became to sink into the new life he'd fashioned for himself. One side of hell traded for another; vast open spaces and a lack of security on horseback were exchanged for sprawling dirt tunnels and a terrific new appreciation for claustrophobia.

His left leg itched fiercely below the calf, slick, encased within leather. He hadn't time to check much else beyond his issued pocket-watch, and he'd withstood worse punishments than soggy boots in the year since he'd enlisted, and worse still before then. As his division was pulled back from the front lines the men seemed to recall themselves back to some semblance of humanity, falling back into ordinary routine. Once recalled their eyes grew dim. Soon enough all of them were sleepless, running ragged on nerves, muscle memory. Much like residual hunger, the discomfort remained a constant nagging sensation in the back of his mind that he could pinpoint without need for reflection, in the same way the indeterminable amount of time spent wading through mud and learning to anticipate each round of shellfire numbed him to any other existence.

. . .

Horses were scarce. Rats were not. There were rats back in Paradis too, usually confined to the cities in the outer Walls, but they spread quickly after the fall of Wall Maria. It had been a shock at twelve years old waking up to something small crawling around next to his head that was not Armin or Mikasa, seeking warmth. He'd not made a sound for fright, then just as soon his fear turned to reckless courage and he'd tried to catch it in his hands, thinking in that moment perhaps he could kill it and put it in a stew. He'd barely shifted his weight when the rat bolted with a thump and the skittering of claws on wood. He caught only a flash of the silhouette and wondered afterward why it hadn't tried to bite him.

He'd confided in Mikasa once about it. She'd blinked and said without much inflection that eating a rat would make him ill, and they already had food at the almshouse anyway.

Armin had agreed with Mikasa, though he wouldn't look at Eren as he did so, hunched over his own meal. He didn't eat much until Mikasa stressed the matter. She'd shot Eren a look like he ought to have known better than to press it, which was always worse than a lecture. A few days later Eren had tried to apologise. Armin just told him to forget about it.

Six years later it was as though he'd been transported back in time; opening his eyes, half-surprised to see the outline of the dugout ceiling — the almshouse in Karanese, shadows playing on the light cast from electric torches — gas lamps.

_Funny, the things you hang onto,_ he'd thought, checking his watch to make sure he was on-course, laying awake in the bunk.

. . .

Some soldiers enquired about his vernacular. Sticking to his natural dialect was a decision that seemed innocuous until he used the word _Stämme _instead of _Volk_ once in regard to the Allied nations opposite Eldia, and suddenly some of the men were looking at him like he was their grandfather. It was amusing, once he understood. It did not make him dislike the Marlians or Eldians any less.

The days bled into each other. Grey skies and cold rain, the sound of gunfire. Stories surfaced from the coast: Titans dropping from the sky like bombs, disrupting most Eldian defences in the blink of an eye. The phrase reignited a memory of his old captain and a crueler irony. A greater threat was splayed across the papers and speculation trickled out from the mouths of his fellow soldiers, a constant and unmistakable threat: _"The Marley will overrun us soon. We may have tanks, aeroplanes, but they can only do so much. We're running out of time and resources. Without some miracle, all we can do now is stave off our eventual defeat."_

Old ghosts that had haunted him for years and driven him to enlist as a mere boy now returned with frightening familiarity. Age and reflection had quelled his temper somewhat, and if anyone were to ask him his opinion about the ongoing conflict, Krueger would shrug off his doubts and speak coolly: _"There is a way to beat them. There are many of us and few of their kind. All it takes is one direct hit to the nape; that will kill the Warrior" _— _Shifter_, he thought but did not say —_ "inside."_

And with those words came the same awe glittering in the eyes of those more impressionable and a keener sense of remorse on Krueger's part. He was always going to be the same man with bright eyes and an involuntary charisma, too outspoken for his own good.

. . .

Two weeks ago, on the night before they were to return to the front lines, a soldier had come up to him and asked: _"If it's so simple, why don't you go out there and kill them yourself?"_

His name was Frederick. He had freckles and light hair, still growing into his limbs but older than Eren had been at graduation from the 104th Trainee Corps, already touched by a sense of cynicism that came with loss. Krueger had levelled with him as he would any other man: _"That's why I enlisted in the first place."_

They had talked a little thereafter, sharing solidarity in loss. Frederick was better at holding conversation than Krueger, who only saw a reflection of his own mistakes.

Fredrick had a family back home, and was careful to discourage any greater details about himself beyond the simplistic: _a_ _mother back home, father left to go to war and came back different, an older brother that died in action._

When asked in turn, Krueger said he had no family back home that mattered; the war had taken his mother and father when he was young and he'd spent the better portion of his life training to become a soldier. It was hardly a lie, more of an obscuration of the truth.

The morning they were due back, Frederick had taken Krueger aside. He was pale and wouldn't look Krueger in the eyes. "O.K., I wasn't going to tell you this, but. My mum hates that I'm here," he said at last, his voice small, betraying his age. "I write to her when I can, but she hasn't responded in a while." He hesitated. "D'you think she hates me 'cos I'm a soldier?"

Krueger had not expected the conversation to continue beyond introductions. He'd had few friends as a cadet, apart from those that chose to stick by him — there came a washed-out recollection of the wiry blonde-haired boy at the top of the class, the quiet girl with raven hair and sharp eyes, others, he could not name — a long and lonely dream centred around an angry boy that clawed his way to fifth best in his squadron, not from any inborn brilliance but sheer tenacity.

"Well," Krueger said at length, "maybe she just doesn't know what to say to you."

Fredrick shrugged. "I _have_ written her before. It doesn't make much difference now."

"You should try again, maybe. She might…" he bit his tongue, searching for the right words, "she might want to know you still care about her as well."

Frederick's face darkened. "Last time we talked, she blamed my dad for going to his death — as if _she _knows what it's like —" he stopped as though realising his own implication, wide-eyed, shameful.

"You ought to write her anyway."

"What? Why should I give her the satisfaction?"

"She might just be worried about you."

"See, you don't get it either." He fidgeted with his canteen for a minute, not looking at Krueger. "I write to my sister, though. She's the only one I can talk to besides the other soldiers here."

Krueger shifted uncomfortably. "That's… good, isn't it?"

"She's all right. She doesn't blame me for stuff, anyway." He glanced timorously at Krueger. "I'm sorry your brother died."

Krueger had no idea what to say.

A week afterwards, Frederick had stepped on a mine and they only ever found pieces of him.

. . .

It was not yet noon. Several men had been shot dead that very morning, and two more experienced a couple near-misses yester-day. The unlucky ones lay wounded, dying in the mouths of earth scored by shellfire, the mud sucking them down to a slow and pitiful expiration. Some lived for hours, rarely longer than a night, never more than a day.

Before long the survivors would be sent to scale the trench and advance towards the enemy line whilst avoiding the mines and wire. In his head, Krueger tried to map out the layout of the battlefield and the soldiers scrambling across its pocks and creases like so many ants. If he were to tell the other soldiers they'd peg him for having a keen imagination, or suggest he take up a position in cartography.

It was not his first skirmish. It would likely not be his last, either.

At the sound of the whistle and the officer's roar, he began to scale the wall, anticipating the open plain before him, scored with shellfire and the scattered corpses of those unluckier than he. The whistling in his head grew louder; Krueger did not allow himself to hesitate, one arm over the other, pulling, clearing the top and catching a glimpse of what awaited him, too quick to comprehend.

A shout he heard but did not register; the whistling sharpened in volume and intensity. He felt the impact before he heard it, dust and shrapnel engulfing the air, the force tearing up into him — thrown back, he cried out, the vocalization sharp in his throat but unable to hear anything before he fell back against the mud and did not rise.

Blinding pain in his right eye stranded him to consciousness. He still couldn't hear past the ringing in his ears. Blunt weight pressed down on him — another soldier? — he could not identify a source beyond the presence of dead weight. Tried to right himself but couldn't move very well. His efforts turned strained, desperate; he managed to free an arm, shoving off the body and latching onto the dirt wall, finding no solid purchase. Quivering, he covered his head with his hands and tried to breathe; the effort brought a new, sharp pain. _Broken ribs?_ His face felt wet. Reaching up to touch, his fingers came away ruddy.

"Krueger!"

Someone pushed his bloody hair out of his face and into his vision came the face of the man who had rescued him. His lips moved but Krueger couldn't hear him very well. Another soldier made his way toward him, ducked under his arm to keep him upright. Krueger let himself be half-dragged, half-carried. Tried to walk as well as he could but his legs wouldn't obey him and he slumped against the shoulder of the other man, determined to stay on his feet.

They made slow progress down the length of the dugout. Eventually he was passed off to the medical. When he realised what would become of him he permitted himself to be led back into the tunnel, limp as a doll, unable to pass out but catching sight of the world in flashes — light giving way to dark, the sound of the battle muffled only incrementally by dirt walls.

The smell caught up to him first; human musk, blood and rot recently purged. He made an attempt to hold his breath but could not manage it for the pair; no point in prolonging the inevitable. His leg was causing him a great deal of distress by now but he could not bring himself to let on.

"He's conscious — hold him still. Can you hear me, soldier?" Krueger tried to answer but only moaned aloud. It was difficult to focus on the sound of his own voice, yet he felt the reverberation in his chest with every aching draw of air into his lungs, his head spinning, immobile.

"We have to keep him awake," said another voice. "Talk to him."

As his good eye readjusted the shapes became slightly distinguishable, moulding into shadows that could reach out and touch him — his sense of perception lagged several paces behind sight, the sleeve of the doctor and cloth tied tightly above his knee vividly tangible against his skin.

He felt a different hand brush away the hair from his brow. "There, it's going to be all right. You just have a few scratches."

Krueger knew the lie, and yet still he clung to it; imagined peering into his own skull like a hollowed out bowl, devoid of gore or brain tissue, dry. The image of the room overlapped with his perception, interweaving; disconnected between the phantom scene and the space he knew he physically occupied but could not process in real time — neither made sense.

"Hold him still."

He felt the saw kiss his skin, sharp enough to pierce with just a little more exertion — flinched, wordless, before the doctor began working, back-and-forth — circular amputation, the phrase rebounding back like an imprint behind his eyelids and he knew if he looked down at his leg it would only get worse but he had to know, a flash of crimson in the light — the saw had barely even pierced the flesh, his breath sticking in his lungs as he felt the metal begin to slowly sink into him —

— it wasn't so bad, he thought for a split-second, not so arduous, the uneven scrape back-and-forth of metal on flesh and sinew unnerving but of course it wasn't — then the feeling came back into his limb, rushing to dig its teeth into him and he was breathing much more raggedly, heard the wet grind of flesh chafing and grit his teeth and tried to ignore the low noise in the back of his mind, the serration of tissue — an animal in distress, maybe — knew the answer but he couldn't admit this to himself as he felt it sink in agonising centimetres — the blood kept pouring and he wondered if he was in shock — choked out something resembling a snarl, easy to imagine his leg in the mouth of a great dog rather than the grinning beasts that plagued his nightmares — surely going to black out soon but he was still lucid, taking clarity in sheer intolerable agony — the sawing continued; a sharp jolt against bone, and he almost blacked out, then —

— tried to draw himself up in order to vomit but the nausea had not passed beyond his fitful stomach and he was held down firmly — making noise just to hear himself over the sickening scrape of metal on bone, expecting steam, smoke, any sign of his inhumanity — his vision went dark and someone was shouting at him, calling him back perhaps — he did not know anymore —

. . .

_"There, he's regenerating." In his mind's eye steam was already issuing through the tourniquet. "You've done the best you can for now. We'll just have to try again."_

_Commander Hanji's voice came as though from underwater. Her tone was unmistakably clipped and she only left once she was sure he would be tended to._

_Another failure, another day spent healing only to be thrown back on the cutting board that same evening. He had no strength left to express his emotions so he remained limp, resigned to his fate, an unorthodox marriage of headstrong bravery and nihilism._

_He felt something light brush his forehead and flinched at the contact, like he'd been singed._

_"Shhh," a familiar voice at his ear, a hand brushing back sweat-matted hair, "you're safe. Just rest."_

_"'kasa," he murmured. She didn't move away. He almost wished she would._

_"Yes, Eren?"_

_Her tone was brittle. She'd been resorting to stoicism more often around him. He wondered if it had ever been for his sake._

_His voice caught, cracked. "I don't know, I don't know how to stop it. I'm sorry. I don't know how to stop it."_

_"It's O.K.," she told him firmly. "Rest."_

. . .

When he opened his eyes he could only see through the right. Sense of time came back to him indeterminably. It might have been minutes, or an hour, or a day.

Circular lamp above him incited the sensation of a knife twisting behind his working eye-socket and he shut it out, awaiting some small recess. His throat was raw, his limbs leaden. A wheezing exhale all he could muster.

Became cognisant of some solid mass beneath him, too thin to be a mattress, and sluggishly tried to recollect a better descriptor but came up vacant — he knew only it was not hard enough to be solid ground nor substantial as eiderdown. Breathing in, he could taste the rot lingering in the stale air, and supposed it might have come from other men, or perhaps his own body.

His leg was too warm, the dampness coming off the bare skin accentuated by layered wrappings. Such thoughts invited disorientation, eclipsing his resilience.

A hand touched his naked shoulder. He didn't remember undressing. He could scarcely flinch; enervation rendered him helpless. Anticipation of the unknown thrilled him to the point of nausea. There were many small hands scratching at his leg, like needles. He tried to call out to someone but all he could muster was a vacant, raspy groan. Someone was patting his shoulder, telling him it was going to be all right.

"Please," he croaked. "What's — happened?"

The visage of an older man came into view, his face obscured somewhat by the lack of light and a dressing mask, which muffled his words. "You took a nasty hit back there, but we've cleaned you up. I imagine they'll be taking you off the front lines soon."

Krueger screwed his eye shut, frustrated at his ineloquence: "What has happened to me?"

"You had some shrapnel in you, but we cut it out."

"My leg —" he grit his teeth, attempting to sit up woozily and was promptly pushed back down.

"Don't exert yourself, soldier. You've been through enough to-day."

"My _leg_," Krueger insisted, "is it gone?"

Silence. The tunnel itself seemed to tremble with the aftershock of distant shellfire, then: "Yes. You would surely be dead, if you risked further infection."

Krueger slumped back. He was quiet for a moment. "And — my eye?"

"We salvaged what we could. The men over at the hospice will have to decide what ought to be done." Then he smiled. "You'll be all right — you seem like a courageous lad."

Krueger was hardly listening. _The steam. Why wasn't there any steam? Am I going to be unable to regenerate?_

. . .

_"Ackermann has been asking about you. I can call her down, since you're awake."_

_He didn't acknowledge this, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what he should say. And still couldn't bear to face him. Even Armin had tried to listen, or maybe just thought he'd understand. Of course she must be grieving his choice; it did not mean he wanted to see her like this._

_Captain Levi paused. "I'm sure she would be happy to see you make a full recovery."_

_He wouldn't ask anyone else to attempt that endeavour; it was one thing to cheat death in the mouth of a monster, go on to repeat that process several times more, and another to stop and grasp that this cycle was unending, and no amount of land reclaimed or Titans slain would change the certainty of an oncoming war against a world that wished him, and everyone he had ever known, dead. How was he supposed to look her in the eye and tell her what she did not wish to hear, when he was the one that had caused her anguish?_

. . .

After an indeterminable amount of time the doctors cleaned him up as best they could, then he was hoisted aloft upon the stretcher-bearer; he could still feel his leg caked in grime and hemic tissue exposed under the humble cloth protecting him.

There remained a dull agony in his left eye but he thought little of it, yearning to be brought back to the thankless oblivion of sleep — thought then of his mother and brushed aside her face with a sense of guilt — he could feel the stale air on his face as he was taken out of the tunnel.

He knew he was alive. He had still not yet begun to regenerate. Perhaps he simply lacked the strength, or the damage was too extensive to heal immediately — Reiner had mentioned it once, the ghost of a memory clouded by his own rage and immaturity. He could not allow himself that luxury now, whatever the case. He closed his eye and concentrated on the sensation itself, trying to find some answer.

After a long, agonizing crawl that somehow seemed less arduous than the amputation, they reached a checkpoint. The officer in-charge observed while the soldiers helped him into the cart. There were half-a-dozen men already there in various states of injury, though not all of them were bandaged with the same amount of expertise. A few looked up, further accentuating the vacant glint of their eyes and their sallow, grimy appearances.

The officer took down their names and rank; Krueger was lucid enough to answer, but only where it was necessary. He chose to remain limp and listened to the sound of their footsteps moving away, then studied the other men; noting the lack of identifiable insignia on a few uniforms, he supposed if they might be defectors in their own countries. Prisoners of war for Marley, or Eldia?

The cart began to move, jostling him back into order.

"Oi." The voice was hushed yet full of relief, coming from his blind spot. "You, sir." Krueger was nudged with a well-intentioned shoulder, causing him to flinch at the contact he was unable to anticipate.

"Leave him alone," said another man's voice. "He's probably in shock."

No one would suspect a wounded veteran of subterfuge. Krueger considered his options. Better to hold his tongue and listen for as long as he could get away with it.

He tried thinking of his mother but her face and voice now were just a vague insinuation in his mind — his guilty conscious clung to what he had left behind, and in the end he stopped trying altogether.


	2. Chapter 2

a/n: Apologies for the delay! I'm glad this story is gaining a little traction.

* * *

Krueger awoke feeling distinctly unrested. The same sickening pain in his eye throbbed in time with his pulse. _Still alive, then._ A wave of resignation washed over him. He felt the skin of his leg, too hot and oddly tight under wrappings, and wondered if he would be afforded a crutch once they reached a proper hospital. His lame eye was still prickling; that would surely become a problem in the long-term, left unchecked.

Now that he was up, he had plenty of time to focus on these sensations rather than avoid them. He waited for his eye to re-adjust to the darkness, searching for the horizon in muted grey. Pressed back against the worn canvass of the cart, between the shoulders of wounded—enemy—soldiers and tried to convince himself that he was lucky to be alive at all.

He supposed it could have been worse. In the event of fascial dehiscence, the doctors would have picked him out within the hour or less. Surely then he would be discharged—if he were lucky. Executed on the spot, more likely. For who could imagine a monster from Paradis, slinking into the ranks of his own oppressors who were also suffering the risk of war at his country's hand? A refugee from an island of POWs, of hopeless bastards whose legacy preceded any chance at sympathy from the outside world who now lay at their feet, pleading mercy they had done little to deserve.

Krueger had heard enough words from the other men. He recalled his old self—scrappy, ready to stand up and argue vehemently. He couldn't hold the fear against them, but it did not quell his own unease. Had Reiner felt the same, horrible clawing at his guts every time he heard the name Armoured Titan, or just pushed that feeling so far into the back of his mind it became nebulous, trading the soldier's duty for a brother's? Had Bertholdt known he would die a painful, shrieking death in the jaws of the enemy he had once pretended to befriend, or had they told him he was a martyr, a hero of Marley—and had he believed it in the end? Had Annie felt nothing, crushing the bodies of countless enemy soldiers like termites—and what would compel such an obedient soldier to defy her own reputation as a cold and calculated murderer? Each child begging to be heard, and in the end, they were met with silence.

Krueger had decided a long time ago to drop his hatred for them. They were all only human, able to carry out orders to the best of their abilities until their bodies ceased to function. But human nature was not so easy to temper—too often, the whims of the heart defied logic.

Darrach was whispering to himself, but Krueger couldn't make out what he was saying. Many miles away from home, the hours of isolation had worn heavily on him as much as anyone else.

So he'd have to stay in hospice for a little while. He had no idea how far away he was from their destination, or the front lines. Perhaps their cart would be ambushed or blown away before they had the chance to arrive. His best option now was to try and sleep.

Inhaled, exhaled. Still tense, jolting with every bump on the road or distant explosion. Just breathe, for now. Slowly, grudgingly, his frame relaxed. There. That's better, isn't it?

He'd become excellent at losing sense of himself, a prisoner in his own mind. There was a sort of poetry in that, perhaps—the shifting of the cart against the road did little to calm him. Mostly, he wished he had something to drink.

In a compromised state, he was only going mad under the circumstances.

He must have slept but didn't remember it well. Constant auditory interference, and men like him, still rattled from their previous environment. All around him, whispers.

* * *

The light blinded him at first. Like an animal he shrank back from it, very weak, past the point of stiffness after several ill-rested hours; the needling pain in his lame leg reignited. As Krueger's eye adjusted he noted both of them were in uniform.

With his throat too dry to speak, he raised an arm as though to defend himself.

The younger man saw this and said: "We're not going to hurt you."

In a while he and the surviving men were shepherded out into the light — early morning, and the nurses came out to assist the men who couldn't walk.

Johannes and Michel were separated, as they could walk fine. Darrach still refused to speak a word to anyone and was taken elsewhere from the group. Krueger provided his name and previous division as necessary but declined to mention Marley again. When he entered the hospice, it was as though he'd never met anyone on the cart.

* * *

The hospital was really an old hotel repurposed. When he and the others suitably wounded were, at last, in the correct ward, there was a strange sense of ill-belonging, at least where Krueger was concerned. He hadn't had a proper wash in… well, more time than he cared to admit, and would need a good scouring before he even dreamt of resting, and food — he'd nearly forgotten, with all the excitement.

So with one thing and another, he was cleaned up enough to be presentable and fed. He didn't know how long he slept the first night, thanks to his restless nature brought on by the constant stress of the battlefield, but eventually he managed to catch some rest.

When he awoke the sky outside was light enough to indicate a few hours had passed since morning or maybe a day. Initial pain in his leg had dulled, throbbing with his pulse. He pulled the sheet back to find new flesh freshly scabbed over and fresh bandages. He looked around with an air of detachment that belied exhaustion and his eyes settled easily on the younger orderly with flaxen hair.

No less than ten seconds passed 'til she turned around to fix her two eyes to his one — could she feel him watching her? — and finally, she hesitated. She did not address him explicitly, but frowned as though anticipating some callous remark and turned back to whatever had held her interest previously.

Perhaps he could have tried smiling. Such a brusque façade was easily disproven by lack of will. Krueger contemplated asking what day it was but decided it would, ultimately, make little difference while bedridden, and he didn't want to annoy her.

* * *

The nurses were somewhat understaffed the first week, and Krueger felt sorrier for some of the orderlies as they fought to keep up with all the men being ferried in with their infections and bloodied limbs.

Krueger, for his part, held his tongue and tried to be civil in spite of his discomfort. The steady prickling in his leg and lame eye had not abated in the time since his arrival, the same phantom pain — one leg and one stump masked by unremarkable bedsheets. As long as he kept the wound dressed, there was less chance of healing; this was, he surmised, an effect of getting older, wearing out his body's inhuman abilities; thus, he found it easier to slip into character.

There were several others occupying the ward besides himself; a man, half-concealed behind a curtain—confirmation of his presence came in the infrequent register of his voice, asking for news in a foreign tongue—assuming the worst from the way the nurse answered—not since yester-day, dear; we're waiting for news.

He'd caught only a glimpse of the boy some indeterminable time previous, a hole in his face where the jaw should be, revealing teeth and the hollow mouth inside. There was no way of determining if he was still alive or not beyond the curtain. Strange, to see the human body rended this way, clinging to what life remained in spite of a pitiable existence assured.

If Krueger managed sleep, he usually woke up trembling, almost silent but for the sound of his own irregular breathing.

After several dreams of an unpleasant nature he supposed he could try and write about the dream before it escaped his mind into obscurity, to try and understand it ― alive in unfamiliar territory, and I don't even know your name but you are an enemy, the same as that boy beside me, and I am sorry for what I must do ― but his hands would not obey him, and he knew his own weakness to be a blessing when the younger orderly came over and asked what was wrong.

Wordlessly he attempted to convey the nature of his own defeat. A look of timorous comprehension crossed the girl's face. "What are you writing? Maybe I can help you."

Shook his head. He could anticipate the moment where she would attempt to pry the pen from his unsteady fingers ― did not hesitate to grasp her small wrist with enough force to make himself clear, the alarm in her face registering tardily ― but felt no remorse in the moment, just a violent desperation to protect himself as much as her from the horror in his mind.

"It's nothing." His voice was harsh from lack of use. "Just leave it, please."

Old guilt pulled at him, unable to be discarded. Images of a life before his own existence became tangible yet not quite reachable, and next, a potent sense of emptiness.

"Feeling all right, Mr. Krueger?" It was the nurse. Her dark gaze lingered on the bandages around his left eye—he did not flinch.

"Yeah. Thank you." Deliberated, then added, to the girl: "Sorry."

"It's all right." Silence for a moment. The girl's attention was drawn in tandem to the boy behind the curtain, stirring. Krueger listened intently, but there was hardly a conversation to be understood—rather, the sound of the girl talking indistinctly.

It was easy to imagine anyone in the boy's place, missing a jaw or a cavernous space where their eye had been, the white skull exposed, bleeding freely without the ability to replenish.

This war did not favour the lives of anyone in armed combat. Old thoughts betrayed him—mere aberrations and nothing more.

* * *

Each morning, around six hours or so, he could discern the steady beat of footsteps on solid wood and learnt to recognize the same orderly girl — he didn't know her name, but he supposed this was not so important in the grand scheme of things. She smelt of lavender and had green eyes and a bright voice that didn't fit the grisly circumstances, yet she was not abrasively optimistic either.

She was busy most often, but she had taken notice of him more than once, and he'd managed to get a few words out of her: about the weather, the war, his improvement with the crutches and talk about faux-legs — "hardly any of the men want to use them, it seems a waste" — and he supposed she was trustworthy, for now. After two weeks, he'd learned she had a mum and dad back home — she didn't talk about them much.

The bedridden boy didn't seem to be getting any better. The curtain remained drawn around his bed until one day where he was escorted out on the basis that he was sick and there was a new technique to fix his legs — something the nurses talked to each other about in dark tones when they thought the wounded were asleep. The boy was either too weak to protest or did not care.

On the day the boy was departed, Krueger tried to watch him to get any inkling of what was going through his head. Then, gently, he felt himself ushered back against his own bed — the young orderly was talking to him, smelling of lavender soap, hushed and a little anxious — I'm sorry, I don't know what will happen to him — and the whole situation reminded him of some vague facsimile of childhood — realised he was trembling only when she cupped his wounded head. The gauze would need to be changed later but not at this moment — and this time he could not stop shaking and his good eye squeezed shut before he would allow himself to succumb.

He couldn't remember the last time he had thought of his mother without the context of his own grief or furious vengeance. She divested herself without lingering, glanced at his leg, or the flat space where it should be. "Does it hurt much?"

He shrugged, allowing himself a half-truth: "Nothing I haven't dealt with before."

"I'm sorry I can't give you anything more for the pain." she told him. "Just try and rest."

* * *

After three weeks he'd gotten well-acquainted with the staff; the older orderly, who had darker hair and an accent that reminded him strongly of home, was decreed to help him wash.

Initially Krueger felt a little awkward — not that he had much use for modesty in the trenches, but for the fact that she simply wasn't a soldier. She had a good spirit about it though, and treated him about as honourably as he could have hoped.

Eventually it was the younger one's turn to assist him, though she held no strange attitude about doing so.

His hair was growing without a proper cut, and thus stuck to the sides of his face when wet, got into his good eye. He pushed it away, almost at ease, never able to convince himself of it fully. There was a tension in the room that had not existed with the older woman, and the girl, despite her professionalism, seemed to steal glances at him when she thought he was preoccupied; still, Krueger wondered if he was just being paranoid.

"Wait, miss."

"Yes?" Her hand was very present on his naked arm, rising to his shoulder. It was only a wash, and it would probably not be the last one.

He often struggled to keep himself taciturn when he looked at her; if it were any other woman, he would not have cared. But she reminded him of someone he'd forgotten about, a long time ago — the thought always made him feel lonely. The girl was nearly a woman, with her long blonde hair she kept back and soft features unmarred.

His naked face revealed the scar from his brow all the way down to his left jaw — he could hide it well enough beneath bandaging.

Krueger could not discern what she looked like beneath her clothes — in fact, it had never occurred to him previously. He ought to stop while he was ahead, but what else could he do in the company of his own thoughts?

Unexpectedly, her hand slipped into the water and he gasped when her fingers kneaded at his naked thigh. "Does it hurt? Your leg."

Krueger shook his head, unable to look at her or close his legs without drawing further attention to himself. He couldn't help his reaction to the touch — it was not embarrassing so much as mildly awkward — but he did not wish to alarm her, or get her in trouble. He knew he did not love her; was it necessary?

Glancing down, she did not recoil. "It'll go away on its own," he muttered, waiting to see what she would do. Her mouth was close enough to his temple that he could gauge the steady puff of her breath on skin. He should do the right thing as a proper soldier, and push her away, tell her to forget this had ever happened.

"I can help, if you'd like," she suggested.

Her hand went a little higher up his good leg and he inhaled harshly — anticipation was always worse than its outcome — now she was looking him in the eye, and his heart was pounding as he croaked: "You — you don't have to do that for me."

"Do you want me to?"

She was flushed, but her tone and gaze were unwavering; Krueger was only human.

The water was tepid by now, but he felt as though he was burning as he sat up straight, chest constricting. He twitched a little once she palmed him fully, startling her.

"Sorry," he muttered, self-conscious. "It's been — a while." The girl shivered. "You can go harder than that, it won't hurt." She wrapped her hand around him and began stroking, too gently to be relished. "Harder," he stressed, "I don't bite —" took her wrist in his hand and pumped once, emphatically "— like that, see?"

"All right." She sounded annoyed but nevertheless started handling him with authority. He grasped at the edge of the basin, wishing he could draw her into his arms, not to escalate the situation but merely ensure the reality of it. She drew closer to him as she worked, and, resting his forehead to her temple for the simple want of intimacy, his lips grazed her cheek — she froze, murmured: "None of that."

He shrunk away, but took her wrist and guided her into a pace that would suit them both — up the very length of him, thumbing the head 'til he realised with an awful jolt that he was essentially just masturbating in front of her. "Come closer," he muttered.

She thumbed him at the tip; he squeezed his eye shut, gasping weakly. "This is what you want?" she enquired.

Krueger nodded. He was not thinking of her hand or her in particular when he screwed his eye shut. The girl was nothing like a soldier, not quite as hardened but not so pure in the sense of typical naiveté; this was a far cry from dressing wounds.

To quiet himself he bit his tongue and clenched the edge of the tub, white-knuckled, hissing when he came, graceless, polluting the water. She wiped her hand while he cleaned himself off in turn. Nothing more was said as she gave him a thin towel and left the room at his polite, yet firm insistence.

* * *

By the time he made himself decent, he caught sight of her remaining near his table. Perhaps she was gathering medicine for another patient, he told himself, but was unable to believe it wholly.

"You're still here?"

She scoffed. "Don't be strange. I have to make sure you're all right, don't I?"

The words struck deep enough to ache, and the intensity of this sensation alarmed him. It had been months since anyone would talk to him like a regular person, let alone pay him an innocuous compliment or allow him the luxury of human intimacy.

"I don't love you, you know," he said quietly, so only she could hear.

"I don't, either." Krueger stared blankly at her. The orderly girl did not seem to be worried in the slightest. "You're the only one who looks at me like I'm an ordinary person. And you forgot your medicine, also," she added plainly.

"It's O.K.," Krueger said, limping over to the bed, feeling mildly nonplussed but also relieved in a way. "Just leave it on the table."

She smiled at Krueger in a way that reminded him of her age rather than her profession. "All right, sir. How are the crutches?"

Krueger huffed; she couldn't be much older than he. "It's better than the wood leg, I suppose."

Silence descended upon them. Some of the men had started to take notice. "I'm good for now, thanks," said Krueger gruffly. "Go help someone else."

She departed, leaving Krueger alone with his thoughts and a lingering sense of confusion he quickly dismissed.


End file.
